


Whitehouse.gov

by zizes



Series: And It's Surely To His Credit [3]
Category: Glee, The West Wing
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4841759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizes/pseuds/zizes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt’s first day at the White House. New job, new email address, new direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whitehouse.gov

**Author's Note:**

> Set (and originally posted) following season 3 of Glee. In the West Wing universe, it's a year and a half into President Santos's first term.

"Is the cravat too much?”

Kurt’s dad calls from outside, “Fifteen minutes, bud.”

“Hold the phone further away - I can’t see it.” Kurt props his phone carefully on the bathroom counter, takes a few steps back, poses. Blaine smiles back at him from the screen. “Kurt, you look fabulous.”

“Fabulous? Or, you know," - he strikes a pose - “ _fabulous_?”

“Stop that.”

Kurt looks himself over again and shakes his head. “It’s too much.”

Blaine laughs. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you.”

“Government is conservative,” he says. “Fashion-wise. Even the Santos administration.” He swaps it for a striped tie; Blaine watches as he ties it, his smile slowly growing until his mouth is hanging open in a charming, bemused grin.  “So. How’s this?”

“Is that -” 

He grins. “I held onto it.” The Dalton tie looks rather dashing, actually, in the right context (far, far away from red piping).

Blaine laughs. “Kurt, I know you said it’s conservative, but you don’t actually have to wear a uniform.” 

“I like it,” he says. “It doesn’t look bad, does it? Not too boring?”

“Not boring at all.”

“And besides.” Kurt gives a little half-shrug. “I can’t wear a gum wrapper ring to work, but I can wear this.”

Blaine ducks his head away shyly. “You still think of me as that dashing Dalton boy, huh?” he says. 

Kurt picks up the phone and blows a kiss. “That, and so much more.”

“Kurt!” his dad calls.

They’re making Burt’s efficiency work for both of them, since Kurt’s not getting paid and Burt's back in Ohio half the time.  It’s either going to be a great father-son bonding experience or fodder for an ABC Family sitcom. In their first weekend together, they’ve visited the Smithsonian, gone shopping at Eastern Market (his dad lasted about fifteen minutes, but at least in principle it was a father-son outing), argued over who was going to sleep on the air mattress (Kurt won, arguing forcefully that he was neither a congressman nor a heart patient), and made an emergency trip to Target to purchase a full-length mirror, once Kurt realized the only mirror in Burt’s apartment was the one on the medicine cabinet.

(“You’ve been dressing for work for eight months without being able to see below your chest?”

His dad shrugged. “Why do I need to see my shoes in the mirror?”

“Oh my god.”)

He adjusts his hair one last time.

“Good luck!” says Blaine, who is actually bouncing with excitement.

“I love you,” Kurt says softly, and hangs up.

Here goes … something.

**

He arrives at the gate at 8:30 sharp, driver’s license in hand, nervous as hell. There are small packs of tourists already peering through the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue, and he can see them watching curiously as he waits for the guard to clear him.

He's met at the other end of the metal detector by a woman he doesn't recognize. "Kurt? I'm Ginger, Sam Seaborn's assistant. Sam asked me to come get you." 

He trails just behind her, her heels clicking crisply on the pathway as she leads him toward the West Wing. 

And then the sound of Ginger’s footsteps starts to fade away, because Kurt’s looked up and stopped dead in his tracks. 

Ginger turns around and grins. "Have you been here before?" 

"No, never." 

The White House isn’t huge, but up close, it’s unmistakably monumental - standing pristine and elegant, an island set apart from the scrum of the city. The portico columns, reaching three stories up, are actually gleaming in the morning sunlight. Kurt takes a deep breath, his eyes squinting against the bright white and the palpable glow of power.

"Yeah, you never get over it,” she says cheerfully. “I'll give you a tour of the West Wing later - that's even better. C'mon."

Inside, the West Wing is … well, it’s an office. Ignore the grand lobby and the presidential seals, and you might be in Lima’s City Hall. (He does note that it’s much nicer than his dad’s office - four dingy rooms deep in the bowels of the Rayburn House Office Building, next to where they take out the trash from the House cafeteria.) 

Inside, Ginger deposits him at a cubicle stuffed with two other interns, piles of file boxes, and a gigantic printer. “Josh and Sam are in senior staff - they should be out soon,” she says. “Make yourself at home.” 

Kurt wedges himself in and introduces himself to the others, while they wait for the senior staff meeting to finish. Sophia’s in a public policy grad program at GW, and Dan just graduated from Harvard. They’ve both been there for two weeks already; they’ve had an orientation, and they have schedules and computers and actual responsibilities. 

Kurt’s not exactly sure where he stands here; after his brief conversation with Josh, he got a series of emails and phone calls from various official-sounding people, asking for his personal information and telling him where and when to show up. He’s doesn’t even know what Josh has in mind for him - if it’s a favor for his dad, an extended take-your-legislative-ally’s-kid-to-work day, or if he’ll actually be expected to contribute.

“Where are you in school?” Dan asks.

He lifts his chin and says lightly, “Ohio State.” 

It’s the truth; he had to scramble to apply and enroll at Ohio State-Lima (the _horror_ ) to be eligible for the internship. Not that he has any intention of actually attending. But officially, Kurt Hummel is a Buckeye.

“Oh!” is the response he gets from the others - chorused, encouraging, empty. It fades into an awkward silence, where they would say, “Oh, that’s a great school,” or “Oh, I know someone who goes there,” if it were, or if they did.

For a moment, he feels strangely defensive of his home state. Sure, it’s not Harvard, and it’s not for him, but it’s not a terrible school. “I haven’t actually been to college yet,”  he confesses. “I just graduated from high school.”

“Oh my god, you’re so _young_ ,” Sophia groans.

**

A friendly, shaggy-haired guy from IT stops by before Josh does. His tie has screen-printed bicycles on it, and he doesn’t look much older than Kurt. He gets Kurt's email set up and walks him through the do’s and don’ts of technology in the White House. (“Basically, imagine everything you write down in this building being read out loud on _Fox and Friends_.”)

When he leaves, Kurt takes the opportunity to send out a quick message.

 

From: Kurt Hummel <Kurt.E.Hummel@eop.whitehouse.gov>  
To: mrblaineanderson@gmail.com  
Sent: Sept 17, 2012 9:14 a.m.  
Subject: First day  
\----------  
Hi. :)

    
The second he hits send, he remembers IT Guy’s warning and lunges for his phone to send a follow-up message. 

    
From: Kurt Hummel <kurthummel@gmail.com>  
Sent: Sept 17, 2012 9:17 a.m.  
To: Blaine Warbler <mrblaineanderson@gmail.com>  
Subject: P.S.  
\----------  
Everything sent to that email address is in the public record, so please don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. And DON’T GIVE IT TO SANTANA.  
Love you xoxoxo

   
From: Blaine Anderson <mrblaineanderson@gmail.com>  
Sent: Sept 17, 2012 9:16 a.m.  
To: Kurt Hummel <Kurt.E.Hummel@eop.whitehouse.gov>  
Subject: RE: First day  
\----------  
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

     
From: Blaine Anderson <mrblaineanderson@gmail.com>  
Sent: Sept 17, 2012 9:20 a.m.  
To: Kurt <3 <kurthummel@gmail.com>  
Subject: P.S.  
\----------  
OK, got it, will not send sexy pictures to whitehouse.gov. I am so proud of you. I love you. Skype tonight?  
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

    
From: Kurt Hummel <kurthummel@gmail.com>  
Sent: Sept 17, 2012 9:22 a.m.  
To: Blaine Warbler <mrblaineanderson@gmail.com>  
Subject: P.S.  
\----------  
My dad’s here, but I’ll see what I can do. ;)

    
In the same moment, he gets a text message from Tina.

Tina Cohen-Chang [9:15 a.m.]: WHITEHOUSE DOT GOV  
Tina Cohen-Chang [9:15 a.m.]: oh my god Kurt  
Tina Cohen-Chang [9:16 a.m.]: you’re taking over the world  
Tina Cohen-Chang [9:16 a.m.]: everyone in glee says hi btw, i just screamed when blaine showed me your email  
Tina Cohen-Chang [9:17 a.m.]: you’re probably busy but i just wanted to say HI and HOLY CRAP I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU  
Tina Cohen-Chang [9:17 a.m.]: and can you do something about those mom jeans santos wears???

    
“You must be Kurt.”

Kurt leaps to his feet, dropping his phone into his bag like it’s on fire.

Sam Seaborn, Deputy Chief of Staff, is (a) exceedingly handsome, in an if-Cooper-Anderson-allows-himself-to-age-gracefully sort of way, and (b) the only man in the building wearing a suit that fits him properly.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Seaborn,” he says.

He shakes his head. “God, no. Call me Sam. Please.” Kurt nods. “Glad to have you on board. Big fan of your father’s.”

“Thank you.”

“I ran for Congress once,” Sam says. “In a special election, like your dad.” He turns to the others. “His father’s a member of Congress - Burt Hummel, Ohio Fourth. Independent. Great guy.”

Sophia raises her eyebrows curiously at Kurt - _you didn’t mention your dad was a congressman -_ and Kurt looks away quickly. He’s not sure whether that wins or loses points for him here. 

“I remember that one!” Dan says. “That was that wack job campaign, right? With the, the monkey ads? And the lesbian cheerleader?”

Kurt’s jaw clenches involuntarily. “That’s the one,” he says.

“I lost,” Sam says. “In a landslide. Total humiliation. It was one of the best and worst things I’ve ever done in my life. Swore off politics forever. Two years later, here I am.” He beckons to Kurt. “Let me show you around.”

As they head off, Ginger calls, "Sam!" Sam steers Kurt toward her desk, on the other side of the cubicle wall. “I was going to do the tour.”

“I’d like to do it.”

“You get the rooms wrong.”

“One time. One time I got the rooms wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, just shoots Kurt a look.

The West Wing isn’t all that large - hence the cramming people into cubicles. They poke their heads into the Roosevelt Room (“It’s named for one of them,” Sam says. “Whichever you like better.”) and the press room, and Sam points out the hallway that leads to the Oval Office. The president’s out of town this week, campaigning for Democratic members of Congress; Kurt’s a bit relieved, since this place is overwhelming enough without the possibility of actually running into President Santos. 

“You ran your dad’s campaign last year," Sam says, stepping smoothly out of the way to pass three people walking in the opposite direction. Kurt quickly ducks out of the way; in the brief glance he gets in after almost colliding with her, he's almost positive he recognizes C.J. Cregg, Tina's personal favorite political celebrity. "Why aren’t you working for him instead of us?” 

Kurt smiles. “He wouldn’t have let me. He told me I’d be crazy to turn down the White House.”

“I really do like him,” Sam says. “I wasn’t just saying that. You did a great job, turning that district around. Hey, Cabinet room.” He pushes the door open, and Kurt peers in at a long wooden table and high-backed chairs. 

"You can go in if you'd like," Sam says. "Have a seat. Pretend to be your favorite Cabinet secretary." 

Kurt takes a few cautious steps inside. He runs his fingertips over a studded chair back, across the glossy tabletop. 

"Mine's Attorney General," Sam adds. 

They’re all so casual about it; he can’t imagine what that might feel like, to have this be normal. 

They stop at another closed door. Sam raps on it and, without waiting, pushes it open. 

Kurt would recognize Josh Lyman even without Tina's politics boot camp over the summer; he’s been on TV and in the papers since long before Kurt started really paying attention to the news. Political wunderkind. Shot and nearly killed by a white supremacist in the assassination attempt on President Bartlet. Architect of President Santos’ historic campaign and his jobs bill.

At the moment, he has his desk chair tilted all the way back and his socked feet up on his desk, nudging a tall pile of papers precariously close to the edge.

“Tell him –” he’s saying into the phone. “Tell Connors he may not have noticed, but he’s the one running for reelection this year, not us. And this bill is going to make basic health care affordable for thousands of families in his district, and if he doesn’t think that’s a good idea, he can go home and explain that to his constituents himself.” He rubs his hand absently over the back of his head as he talks, making his wild hair wilder. “I'm not being vindictive. The President campaigns for people who are on his side. It’s not vindictive, it’s logical.” He glances up and covers the phone. “What is it?”

Sam points to Kurt. “Kurt Hummel.”

“Hey, Ohio!” Josh swings his feet off the desk, making his chair groan ominously. “No, that wasn’t to you. Look, I'll be honest with you, I couldn't care less about this. Do what you need to do to make it go away. Thanks."

He hangs up. “Ohio! You made it. Great to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Kurt says. “I mean. Nice to meet you, too. Thank you for … having me.”

“Of course,” Josh says. “Welcome aboard.”

**

Kurt finally receives his first assignment that afternoon, when Josh asks him to photocopy a memo. “I promise, you’re not just going to make copies,” he says. “But this way you can tell people you worked your way up from the bottom.”

He's just about figured out the ancient copy machine outside Ginger’s cubicle when a voice startles him from behind.

“You’re new. And extremely well-dressed.”

Kurt sees the Louboutins first, then the person they're attached to - a beautiful woman in a trim gray suit, her hair in a thick blonde bun. She sticks out her hand. “Ainsley Hayes. White House Counsel.” 

He takes her hand; she gives his a single firm shake, with a grip that brings tears to his eyes. “Kurt Hummel,” he manages. “Intern. And … thank you.”

“You’re working for Josh.”

“I am.”

“I’m looking for Josh. Do you know where I can find him?”

"He’s … in a meeting, I believe.”

“Who with?”

He gulps. He's only gotten a brief glance at Josh’s schedule, a crazy quilt of meetings with people whose names he probably should recognize. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.” 

“Well. When you do see him, can you tell him to come reassure me that I need to get my hearing examined, because the White House press secretary did _not,_ in fact, just imply on national television that the President would use the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services to engage in a regulatory end run around Congress if they vote down the Warren bill, a critical amendment to which I have been working on for the last two days - working, I might add, _with_ the Director of Legislative Affairs, from whom he will _also_ be hearing shortly, and who will not be _nearly_ as polite as I am when requesting said reassurance - and which, unlike the press secretary's adventure in executive power, has the dual advantage of being both feasible and constitutional.” She pauses - for dramatic emphasis more than for air, Kurt thinks. “And when he does come deliver said reassurance, to bring, as a peace offering, a piece of coffee cake from the cart outside the McPherson metro.” 

Kurt blinks and nods slowly. _This is how Finn must feel all the time_ , he thinks. “I’ll … pass the message along,” he says.

“A large piece of coffee cake,” she adds. “Blueberry.”

“… OK.”

He’s mercifully interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

“Ainsley!” Sam says. “Are you stealing our interns?” 

“I would never,” she says. “Though I was considering holding him for ransom until one of you gentlemen deigned to answer your email.”

“I got your email.” Sam holds up his BlackBerry. “And I had every intention of answering it. No kidnapping of interns necessary.”

“You had every intention of answering it.”

“Eventually.”

“So you’ve been …”

“Avoiding you.”

“Ah.”

Sam turns to Kurt. “Kurt. This is Ainsley Hayes, the White House counsel. She’s the smartest person in this building. She’s also a Republican. Luckily, she also has an overdeveloped sense of duty, so she’s working for us in here instead of against us out there.”

Kurt nods, glancing around for an escape route. 

“Ainsley, this is Kurt Hummel. He’s an independent. You should have coffee sometime and talk about the moral bankruptcy of the Democratic Party.”

“It would be my pleasure," Ainsley tells him. "As soon as I finish familiarizing Sam with Article I of the U.S. Constitution.” 

"I can assure you, there's nothing I'd rather do this afternoon," Sam says. "My office?" 

"Josh's office." 

Sam deflates ever so slightly. "Right." 

"Pleasure meeting you," Ainsley says to Kurt. 

“Likewise," he says. As she pivots to lead Sam into Josh's office, he adds, “Those are great shoes.” 

“Yes, they are.” 

**

“They’re nice,” he tells Blaine, as he walks down the Mall on his way home. “It’s … a lot to take in. It's not what I thought I'd be doing this fall.”

"I know," Blaine says, and there's just a hint of the worry and weariness from the summer, when they talked it over and over, working through the disappointment. "Are you OK?"

"Yes. Yes. More than OK." At the far end of the Mall, the Capitol glows in the evening sunlight. "I liked it. I liked them."

“Tell me everything,” Blaine says. “Did you meet the president?”

“No president,” he says. “But I met Josh Lyman and C.J. Cregg. And I saw the Cabinet Room and the Vice President’s office. And the White House Counsel liked my outfit."

“Really?” Blaine’s voice is giddy.

“Really.” He stops to slip off his suit jacket; the air is still steamy, well into the evening. Joggers dart by him in neon shorts as he passes the sculpture garden.

A couple crosses in front of him - two young guys in hipster wear, holding hands. 

“I don’t think we’re in Lima anymore, Toto,” he says, and Blaine’s laugh warms him from 500 miles away.


End file.
